Poetry competition CLOSED 30th January 2015 2:18am
WINNER
Franko76
Franko76
RUNNERS-UP:
toniscales
and GraveyardBard
Disgust and Repugnance
Poetry Contest Description
What disgust you? What fills you with Repugnance?
“Disgusting are not men but their behaviours.”
― M.H. Rakib
"Swallow a toad in the morning and you will encounter nothing more disgusting the rest of the day" - Nicolas Chamfort
Share your most disgusting experience; occurrences and encounters that you are disgusted with.
1: Prose
2: Not more than 800 words
3: New Work
4: Title your Story
5: Be Creative
Inviting everyone to participate.
― M.H. Rakib
"Swallow a toad in the morning and you will encounter nothing more disgusting the rest of the day" - Nicolas Chamfort
Share your most disgusting experience; occurrences and encounters that you are disgusted with.
1: Prose
2: Not more than 800 words
3: New Work
4: Title your Story
5: Be Creative
Inviting everyone to participate.
Dissections
Last year in Human Physiology I had to cut a dead cat open and examine her insides. The chemical smelled sickly sweet and was so terrible it hang on my clothes for the whole day. First I had to peel the skin back and then I had to cut through the stomach. The blood inside was dry but flaky and got all over my hands and arms. I stretched the intestines out onto the table completely sickened. Old fecal matter hung out near the colon and the cat's tongue was sticking out of her mouth. The poor thing. I cut inside the chest and held her tiny heart in my hand. Oh what a day indeed. Cutting open a dead creature and seeing the horrors inside. Other people stuck the scalpels inside the buttholes of their cats and desecrated the bodies of the poor creatures with no respect at all. Others strangled the cats with their own entrails and other kids laughed as they played with the skin of their cats. It was horrible to see and I never ever want to do it again.
Last year in Human Physiology I had to cut a dead cat open and examine her insides. The chemical smelled sickly sweet and was so terrible it hang on my clothes for the whole day. First I had to peel the skin back and then I had to cut through the stomach. The blood inside was dry but flaky and got all over my hands and arms. I stretched the intestines out onto the table completely sickened. Old fecal matter hung out near the colon and the cat's tongue was sticking out of her mouth. The poor thing. I cut inside the chest and held her tiny heart in my hand. Oh what a day indeed. Cutting open a dead creature and seeing the horrors inside. Other people stuck the scalpels inside the buttholes of their cats and desecrated the bodies of the poor creatures with no respect at all. Others strangled the cats with their own entrails and other kids laughed as they played with the skin of their cats. It was horrible to see and I never ever want to do it again.
Anonymous
Don't Let Me (Get Me)
I'm disgusted beyond all I can convey
with a woman who started hurting me as a girl
and got more hardcore every year
gets me still
no matter how badly I hurt when everyone else was done
she hung around after to rub it in
started as words
derogatory names that left me deflated
feeling ugly and stupid
then the cutting started
but I couldn't escape and she'd get me
alone in dark rooms and in bright and busy places
she'd hold me by the gut and remind me
I was nothing
a nobody
and she assured me it was all my fault
every other hand that struck me
him that held me down and raped me
she made sure I knew I deserved it
ridiculed me for not being better
she couldn't love me
and she took the years of my life
and threw them away
left me binge drinking and wrist slitting
overdosing and self destructive
and she welcomed others who couldn't love me
to do the same
even tried to kill me a few times
always ready to join my enemies and beat me down
she's here now
in the mirror
alone we sit together
finally sorry
and knowing we can't go on this way
The Mind as a House; or ADHD Unleashed
Horrified! To think that mountains of useless clutter can be multiplied with such ferocious speed, or is it gradual? The need to move starts off as casual, but gains urgency as clothing and boxes impede into that precious space that feeds thoughts, but gets toppled by the resurgence of mold and grime that spews clouds of rot into the caverns of my mind. The old will is replaced by bogs of slime that fester and repulse any action to fight the formation of bacteria that colonize my house: the petri dish, and so, the couch serves as sanctuary to monopolize my time, as the walls grow teeth and claws and grind at the gears of the motor of motion. Any sense of emotion is numbed by maggots and flies that buzz to drown out the voice that says act, and the constant smell of stale fear drags like a weight where my heart meets my stomach, and serves only to feed the notion that my only act should be to accept the inevitable taking of beer: my medicating potion…..
Horrified! To think that mountains of useless clutter can be multiplied with such ferocious speed, or is it gradual? The need to move starts off as casual, but gains urgency as clothing and boxes impede into that precious space that feeds thoughts, but gets toppled by the resurgence of mold and grime that spews clouds of rot into the caverns of my mind. The old will is replaced by bogs of slime that fester and repulse any action to fight the formation of bacteria that colonize my house: the petri dish, and so, the couch serves as sanctuary to monopolize my time, as the walls grow teeth and claws and grind at the gears of the motor of motion. Any sense of emotion is numbed by maggots and flies that buzz to drown out the voice that says act, and the constant smell of stale fear drags like a weight where my heart meets my stomach, and serves only to feed the notion that my only act should be to accept the inevitable taking of beer: my medicating potion…..
Murderer!
You vile disease filled with cowardice and deceit. You stole her from me; that night of destruction. What have you done!?! What have you left me? You filth that which bacteria does not grow. When your time collided with her fate; you took your action of disgust. You cur. You faint color of the air. Smallest of all that is respectable. I hate you with every pound of passion I possess. I know not your face and this is the mask I wear; because of you I am this way, because of you she is leaving me tormented. You dust of confusion, slime of the bottle, foul creature of fear. I despise you with all that I am. How can you cause this pain I bare? How can I go on knowing you not in the cage you belong? You will die with a soul of unrest. I will see to it. Learning voodoo if I must to see just action swift in her eyes. Can you see my fire of revenge burning with no relief? Fear me mortal for my wrath will come down on you untimely and deliberately. Your decision has opened the box which cannot be shut. You bringer of death, animal of abuse, lusting for torture and it will come. What was done is set and your generation cursed in your ways. Father of fatal fatigue. I will find your son's dreams and seed them with plagues. You murdering mother fucker, your time has come! For even in my death I will seek your soul; taking you to hell myself with no regard for return; ensuring your eternal screams echo in her name. Marked murderer! Extinguisher of life, there is no solace in your sleep. No fire in your cave. No sight beyond me for I will be there spearing your chest as you breath her virus. Death is all your future and I am its transforming vehicle.
You vile disease filled with cowardice and deceit. You stole her from me; that night of destruction. What have you done!?! What have you left me? You filth that which bacteria does not grow. When your time collided with her fate; you took your action of disgust. You cur. You faint color of the air. Smallest of all that is respectable. I hate you with every pound of passion I possess. I know not your face and this is the mask I wear; because of you I am this way, because of you she is leaving me tormented. You dust of confusion, slime of the bottle, foul creature of fear. I despise you with all that I am. How can you cause this pain I bare? How can I go on knowing you not in the cage you belong? You will die with a soul of unrest. I will see to it. Learning voodoo if I must to see just action swift in her eyes. Can you see my fire of revenge burning with no relief? Fear me mortal for my wrath will come down on you untimely and deliberately. Your decision has opened the box which cannot be shut. You bringer of death, animal of abuse, lusting for torture and it will come. What was done is set and your generation cursed in your ways. Father of fatal fatigue. I will find your son's dreams and seed them with plagues. You murdering mother fucker, your time has come! For even in my death I will seek your soul; taking you to hell myself with no regard for return; ensuring your eternal screams echo in her name. Marked murderer! Extinguisher of life, there is no solace in your sleep. No fire in your cave. No sight beyond me for I will be there spearing your chest as you breath her virus. Death is all your future and I am its transforming vehicle.
Anonymous
Hit and Run
He lost all clothing, shredded in the drag. No dignity in death.
Look at that shriveled winkie. (mock sorrow:) AWWWWWW. That was the last hit he’ll ever get.
(laughter)
His right leg was severed completely off at the thigh.
Are those rainbow beads around his left ankle? Driver should have dragged the fag another few yards to snap that off as well.
Half his face was unrecognizable as human, scraped off from the asphalt
Christ, my dog’s ass looks better than that old geezer’s GOOD side.
There was a medical tag on the right wrist, which included diabetic info. His twisted bicycle lay nearby.
Maaaath Claaaass is open. How can a 300 hundred pound cyclist get to the fast food restaurant two miles away in less than a minute?
Hook into the fender of a speeding pickup truck. (Laughter laughter laughter.)
His chest had been torn open from impact and his crushed heart exposed.
The gore is awesome! My heart is racing with excitement; I’m going to email these photos to all my horror flick friends.
The sad details of a hit and run experience should hit our hearts like a semi truck and trigger our compassion to react in positive ways. Attend MADD meetings, work with local police to find the runaway killers, show your support to the victim's remaining family through internet discussions and sympathy messages or donations to charity in memory of the deceased.
Yet there are many who sit where such gruesome stories unfold and do nothing but proudly chortle and guffaw comments of bloodlust. There are internet sites which display such horrors only to please that crowd. It disgusts me ever to see there is no heart in those swelled chests which promote their sick views.
(sorry Grace. Not much imagination used here when I wrote. I am telling true facts.)
He lost all clothing, shredded in the drag. No dignity in death.
Look at that shriveled winkie. (mock sorrow:) AWWWWWW. That was the last hit he’ll ever get.
(laughter)
His right leg was severed completely off at the thigh.
Are those rainbow beads around his left ankle? Driver should have dragged the fag another few yards to snap that off as well.
Half his face was unrecognizable as human, scraped off from the asphalt
Christ, my dog’s ass looks better than that old geezer’s GOOD side.
There was a medical tag on the right wrist, which included diabetic info. His twisted bicycle lay nearby.
Maaaath Claaaass is open. How can a 300 hundred pound cyclist get to the fast food restaurant two miles away in less than a minute?
Hook into the fender of a speeding pickup truck. (Laughter laughter laughter.)
His chest had been torn open from impact and his crushed heart exposed.
The gore is awesome! My heart is racing with excitement; I’m going to email these photos to all my horror flick friends.
The sad details of a hit and run experience should hit our hearts like a semi truck and trigger our compassion to react in positive ways. Attend MADD meetings, work with local police to find the runaway killers, show your support to the victim's remaining family through internet discussions and sympathy messages or donations to charity in memory of the deceased.
Yet there are many who sit where such gruesome stories unfold and do nothing but proudly chortle and guffaw comments of bloodlust. There are internet sites which display such horrors only to please that crowd. It disgusts me ever to see there is no heart in those swelled chests which promote their sick views.
(sorry Grace. Not much imagination used here when I wrote. I am telling true facts.)
What disgusts me is when i see a beautiful woman bored with her own beauty. I hate when a woman cant accept a simple compliment. Its a shame when you get a nasty look for complimenting a girl on her style. they dont even give a smile. Shame!
http://www.thewildorchidllc.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Blanket.jpg
Suave-boy
I worked in the funeral business for a couple of years as a director’s assistant. It was a very gratifying position, as it made one feel needed and necessary, and that they were helping people.
My colleagues were individuals who felt as if they’d had a calling towards their line of work. They were sensitive, concerned, and respectful to those poor people who could not care for nor defend themselves any longer.
But there was one man who wasn’t like this.
In my mind I called him “Sauve-boy.” He wore his black hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. Cold as ice in his charcoal-gray suit, he knew he was devilishly handsome. But what pulled me to him was his voice, the way he would clip his speech, so haughtily, as if he knew innately he was smarter than everyone else. I hated myself, but I fell for him. Perhaps it was because I was always attracted to cold, intellectual men, like my father.
But oh, you could sniff the trouble in the air, that malicious scent emanating from him. He was the type whom, if you were cold and hungry in the street, would probably insult and laugh at you.
The day it happened I found him in the preparation room standing over a body. He was spinning jokes but his voice was so measured, so deliberate, so cold. Not laughing. He was positioning the arms of this poor man, because for some reason they had become unusually bloated. Suave-boy looked at me evenly and said, “Hey, here’s the Michelin Man.”
I was so incredulous, such revulsion I felt toward the living. How could someone treat a fellow human being like this? Was there any tenderness or empathy alive in this person?
But the true horror was, I wanted him, and I hated myself for it.
He eventually left some months later. I was relieved. I don’t think I have ever believed in such things, but this person had a black evilness coursing through his icy veins. Perhaps he was the devil himself, and I was seduced. I think of him sometimes and shiver, and am glad I, hopefully, shall never see him again.
Suave-boy
I worked in the funeral business for a couple of years as a director’s assistant. It was a very gratifying position, as it made one feel needed and necessary, and that they were helping people.
My colleagues were individuals who felt as if they’d had a calling towards their line of work. They were sensitive, concerned, and respectful to those poor people who could not care for nor defend themselves any longer.
But there was one man who wasn’t like this.
In my mind I called him “Sauve-boy.” He wore his black hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. Cold as ice in his charcoal-gray suit, he knew he was devilishly handsome. But what pulled me to him was his voice, the way he would clip his speech, so haughtily, as if he knew innately he was smarter than everyone else. I hated myself, but I fell for him. Perhaps it was because I was always attracted to cold, intellectual men, like my father.
But oh, you could sniff the trouble in the air, that malicious scent emanating from him. He was the type whom, if you were cold and hungry in the street, would probably insult and laugh at you.
The day it happened I found him in the preparation room standing over a body. He was spinning jokes but his voice was so measured, so deliberate, so cold. Not laughing. He was positioning the arms of this poor man, because for some reason they had become unusually bloated. Suave-boy looked at me evenly and said, “Hey, here’s the Michelin Man.”
I was so incredulous, such revulsion I felt toward the living. How could someone treat a fellow human being like this? Was there any tenderness or empathy alive in this person?
But the true horror was, I wanted him, and I hated myself for it.
He eventually left some months later. I was relieved. I don’t think I have ever believed in such things, but this person had a black evilness coursing through his icy veins. Perhaps he was the devil himself, and I was seduced. I think of him sometimes and shiver, and am glad I, hopefully, shall never see him again.
The Lecture
The ergonomic shaped electronic lecture aide always serves as a comforting presence to help centre that stomach squirming nervousness one always feels when standing in front of a large crowd of people. As I gaze out at the crowd of a hundred or so second-year nursing students, the sea of young faces reminds me of my own starting point in my nursing career. Eager to impress upon these recruits the raw messy nature of the clinical world they were about to embark upon, I elect to commence my lecture with an engaging stomach churning anecdote. For some reason they always seem to enjoy the blood and guts stories the most.
Let me set the stage:
It was my graduate year as a registered nurse. I had been posted on a general medical ward, which translated to a place where acutely unwell nursing home patients were lobbed in an effort to save them from toppling over the edge. It was a realm of hard, back-breaking nursing work. The kind of place where you cut your teeth on basic skills such as clinical observations, hygiene, and medication administration.
At the tail end of one particular night shift, I had been nominally placed in charge of one half of the ward, equating to sixteen patients. My time this night had been largely monopolised by Mrs Smith. She had been brought in with a high fever and acute confusion. In amongst the myriad of tasks involved with caring for Mrs Smith (such as administering intravenous antibiotics and answering call bells to reassure her that her Geoffrey was safe at home), attending her toileting via bed pans was, perhaps, the most challenging. The reason being she was suffering a urinary tract infection as the cause of her sepsis. It was turning this most basic of nursing tasks into a putridly, pungent undertaking.
While I appreciate that the following description could be considered unnecessary, I feel it imperative to convey the nature of the fluids I was called to manage, the importance of which will be revealed shortly. Imagine, if you will, a cloudy, yellow soup. The contents being particulate precipitate, reminiscent of mashed corn. In addition to the confronting appearance, it was accompanied by a most foul smell. Something akin to days old sardines left in a car on a hot summer day, mixed with acrid, fermented citrus. Vile, in a mouth-breathing, breath-holding olfactory assault kind of way.
It was nearing the end of my shift and I was dealing with what, I hoped, was my last bed-pan of Mrs Smith’s special brew. In my sand papered eyeball tired state, I had placed the bed-pan, containing its nasty contents, beneath her bed while I attended to making her more comfortable by adjusting covers and pillows. In my haste to finish, I had forgotten about the placement of the unpleasant bed pan containing the disgusting liquid. In a shuffling, rushed step, the edge of my shoe managed to catch the edge of the pan, tipping its contents in a wave of unwholesome spillage into my sock and shoe. It took mere moments to realise the warm spreading repercussions of my error.
It required every ounce of remaining willpower to stifle a scream of frustration. My anger manifested, instead, as a snorting giggle, which rapidly cooled my overtired temper. This, once seen in hindsight, was not an appropriate response in parallel with the obscene fluid wending its way beneath my foot and between my toes in squelching purulence.
To this day, I can clearly recall the nose wrinkling affront of the initial removal of my corrupted footwear and the accompanying offensive, sucking drag of my sock. Complete with roiling wave of obnoxious odour. While I was beyond nausea, even at this early stage of my career, I recall a brief period of vertigo on the final sopping release of the befouled garment.
Disgusting and repugnant? Definitely. The tale has become part of my personal nursing legend, a stripe earned in our professions’ bodily fluid based rite of passage.
****
The final point is punctuated with a burst of laughing conversation across the lecture theatre. As the wave of amused discussion and quiet giggles is slowly replaced with respectful attentive silence, a smile enters the tone of my voice.
“Now that I have your attention, let’s discuss the pathophysiology of urinary sepsis…”
The ergonomic shaped electronic lecture aide always serves as a comforting presence to help centre that stomach squirming nervousness one always feels when standing in front of a large crowd of people. As I gaze out at the crowd of a hundred or so second-year nursing students, the sea of young faces reminds me of my own starting point in my nursing career. Eager to impress upon these recruits the raw messy nature of the clinical world they were about to embark upon, I elect to commence my lecture with an engaging stomach churning anecdote. For some reason they always seem to enjoy the blood and guts stories the most.
Let me set the stage:
It was my graduate year as a registered nurse. I had been posted on a general medical ward, which translated to a place where acutely unwell nursing home patients were lobbed in an effort to save them from toppling over the edge. It was a realm of hard, back-breaking nursing work. The kind of place where you cut your teeth on basic skills such as clinical observations, hygiene, and medication administration.
At the tail end of one particular night shift, I had been nominally placed in charge of one half of the ward, equating to sixteen patients. My time this night had been largely monopolised by Mrs Smith. She had been brought in with a high fever and acute confusion. In amongst the myriad of tasks involved with caring for Mrs Smith (such as administering intravenous antibiotics and answering call bells to reassure her that her Geoffrey was safe at home), attending her toileting via bed pans was, perhaps, the most challenging. The reason being she was suffering a urinary tract infection as the cause of her sepsis. It was turning this most basic of nursing tasks into a putridly, pungent undertaking.
While I appreciate that the following description could be considered unnecessary, I feel it imperative to convey the nature of the fluids I was called to manage, the importance of which will be revealed shortly. Imagine, if you will, a cloudy, yellow soup. The contents being particulate precipitate, reminiscent of mashed corn. In addition to the confronting appearance, it was accompanied by a most foul smell. Something akin to days old sardines left in a car on a hot summer day, mixed with acrid, fermented citrus. Vile, in a mouth-breathing, breath-holding olfactory assault kind of way.
It was nearing the end of my shift and I was dealing with what, I hoped, was my last bed-pan of Mrs Smith’s special brew. In my sand papered eyeball tired state, I had placed the bed-pan, containing its nasty contents, beneath her bed while I attended to making her more comfortable by adjusting covers and pillows. In my haste to finish, I had forgotten about the placement of the unpleasant bed pan containing the disgusting liquid. In a shuffling, rushed step, the edge of my shoe managed to catch the edge of the pan, tipping its contents in a wave of unwholesome spillage into my sock and shoe. It took mere moments to realise the warm spreading repercussions of my error.
It required every ounce of remaining willpower to stifle a scream of frustration. My anger manifested, instead, as a snorting giggle, which rapidly cooled my overtired temper. This, once seen in hindsight, was not an appropriate response in parallel with the obscene fluid wending its way beneath my foot and between my toes in squelching purulence.
To this day, I can clearly recall the nose wrinkling affront of the initial removal of my corrupted footwear and the accompanying offensive, sucking drag of my sock. Complete with roiling wave of obnoxious odour. While I was beyond nausea, even at this early stage of my career, I recall a brief period of vertigo on the final sopping release of the befouled garment.
Disgusting and repugnant? Definitely. The tale has become part of my personal nursing legend, a stripe earned in our professions’ bodily fluid based rite of passage.
****
The final point is punctuated with a burst of laughing conversation across the lecture theatre. As the wave of amused discussion and quiet giggles is slowly replaced with respectful attentive silence, a smile enters the tone of my voice.
“Now that I have your attention, let’s discuss the pathophysiology of urinary sepsis…”
Hospital Volunteer
By the time I was entering my freshman year of high school, my parents insisted I get out for the summer, as opposed to sleeping late and propping up on my ass in front of a computer screen all day. My mother works in the microbiology department of a hospital, so she made the suggestion to take up volunteer work. With my father backing the decision, I figured that was settled, so I went to the orientation and found out I'd be working in patient transport, which I assumed would be easy enough.
I've seen a lot of things, having grown up an outside kid, always running around, getting sliced open on the concrete, stung by bees, and the like, but they never so much as once at the orientation mentioned anything about the kind of people I'd be coming in contact with everyday. In the first three months I volunteered there, I fell witness to a number of sights and smells that won't likely ever work their way out of my system:
Some people, when coming out of surgery, experience a bit of drowsiness, but are otherwise content and well-rested. On the other hand, some folks have anywhere from ten to twenty tubes laced into their bodies in places you wouldn't think tubes would go. And you see it all, considering you have to relocate said people to far-off locations in the hospital.
There was once quite a... large fellow that we had to deliver to the x-ray unit, and then bring him back up to his room. Now, when I say this man had MRSA, I mean large, pustulating, swollen sores the size of half dollars up his arms and legs. He also yelled at me to get him a tub when we got him back to his room because he was, as he put it, "having a bowel movement". I had had about enough for one day after that.
The first time I smelled burnt flesh was during a pass through the burn unit, something I'd actually end up doing quite a lot; it's kinda sweet in a way that makes bile shoot straight up your esophagus. It wasn't a very large unit, from what I'd seen, but I tried not to look around too much, considering the doctors would sometimes be bandaging/unbandaging folks with rabid third degree burns.
Lastly, I visited the morgue in the basement once. It wasn't the first time I'd smelled death (this time was actually more pleasant, since it was somewhat masked by the stale musk of embalming fluids), but that's just one of those smells that never leaves you. It's like a cross between spoiled meat, year-old milk, and a bit of sweetness on the back end. Needless to say, if you can go your entire life without catching a whiff of it, I'd highly recommend that.
I ended up volunteering for two more summers after that, though I picked the much less detrimental ER and Radiology departments where the worst I witnessed was a man who came in with an open stab wound in his abdomen. Hospitals skeeve me right the fuck out, man...
By the time I was entering my freshman year of high school, my parents insisted I get out for the summer, as opposed to sleeping late and propping up on my ass in front of a computer screen all day. My mother works in the microbiology department of a hospital, so she made the suggestion to take up volunteer work. With my father backing the decision, I figured that was settled, so I went to the orientation and found out I'd be working in patient transport, which I assumed would be easy enough.
I've seen a lot of things, having grown up an outside kid, always running around, getting sliced open on the concrete, stung by bees, and the like, but they never so much as once at the orientation mentioned anything about the kind of people I'd be coming in contact with everyday. In the first three months I volunteered there, I fell witness to a number of sights and smells that won't likely ever work their way out of my system:
Some people, when coming out of surgery, experience a bit of drowsiness, but are otherwise content and well-rested. On the other hand, some folks have anywhere from ten to twenty tubes laced into their bodies in places you wouldn't think tubes would go. And you see it all, considering you have to relocate said people to far-off locations in the hospital.
There was once quite a... large fellow that we had to deliver to the x-ray unit, and then bring him back up to his room. Now, when I say this man had MRSA, I mean large, pustulating, swollen sores the size of half dollars up his arms and legs. He also yelled at me to get him a tub when we got him back to his room because he was, as he put it, "having a bowel movement". I had had about enough for one day after that.
The first time I smelled burnt flesh was during a pass through the burn unit, something I'd actually end up doing quite a lot; it's kinda sweet in a way that makes bile shoot straight up your esophagus. It wasn't a very large unit, from what I'd seen, but I tried not to look around too much, considering the doctors would sometimes be bandaging/unbandaging folks with rabid third degree burns.
Lastly, I visited the morgue in the basement once. It wasn't the first time I'd smelled death (this time was actually more pleasant, since it was somewhat masked by the stale musk of embalming fluids), but that's just one of those smells that never leaves you. It's like a cross between spoiled meat, year-old milk, and a bit of sweetness on the back end. Needless to say, if you can go your entire life without catching a whiff of it, I'd highly recommend that.
I ended up volunteering for two more summers after that, though I picked the much less detrimental ER and Radiology departments where the worst I witnessed was a man who came in with an open stab wound in his abdomen. Hospitals skeeve me right the fuck out, man...
What a girl capable of…
I’m three steps from the edge! So don’t push me over it. Don’t you know you know ever girl is capable of murder! Swaying hips beautiful lips eyes of tigers hunt there pray don’t you know every girl capable of murder. Oh yeah… if you push me off that ledge I’m gonna scream till your last breath. Gun shots, knife shines, blood sprays ever where as I kill you slowly. So watch out don’t push me further because every girl is capable of murder if you hurt her! I’m two steps over the edge now! I am the only one with a gun. One step now I’m blow you sky high haha I laugh as I pull my hammer back. You fuckin hurt her! So this little girl capable of murder.
